The Glass Casket
by BlueEyedDemonLiz
Summary: A witch's curse leaves Sam trapped somewhere Dean can't follow and Dean finds himself losing faith in a hero he thought he could always count on. Limp/angst, Teenchester two-part short story. Rated for some bad language.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: A witch's curse leaves Sam trapped somewhere Dean can't follow and Dean finds himself losing faith in the hero he thought he could always count on. Limp/angst Teenchester two-part short story. Rated for some bad language._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but I've sold my soul to Kripke. The characters in this fic are not mine, neither is the one line which I have shameless lifted from a certain fairytale which offered me more than a little inspiration. Apologies to the brothers Grimm._

_A/N: This fic is a companion piece to my other story "While You Were Sleeping" but you don't need to read that first. _

_A/N2: Huge grovelling thanks to AdaraChan-67 and TammiTam for their magical beta skills. I played (too much) when I got the chapter back so any and all remaining mistakes are my own. This fic is for TammiTam as part of the CWESS fic challenge - and because she's someone I now consider a dear friend (sorry Tammi, I think that might mean you're stuck with me) and for sendintheclowns, friendly and Sammygirl1963 who asked for this so nicely. I really hope this is something along the lines of what you wanted._

**The Glass Casket - Part One**

"I hate you!" The words were the sharpest weapon in the youngest Winchester's arsenal, the only weapon he could wield at the moment; after all, you can't very well salt and burn your own father.

When you haven't got a whole lot of kinfolk, it hurts like a knife to the gut to feel like you hate what is essentially half of your entire family. Even when you don't hate them, _not really_.

Teenaged emotions which rage like wildfire, words fired like bullets with John the only bull's-eye target mark in range. Even through his angry red haze Sam still sees the way John's eyes change at the exact moment the words leave his lips. The sorrow which all but drowns his father's stern glare. And then the only person Sam truly does hate is himself.

But Sam is a Winchester and his propensity for being a 'stubborn ass' comes as part of the job description. "You don't care about anything I want," Sam yells, his face so flushed red with his heated temper that it's almost comical.

Sam's grown tall these last few years—taller even than Dean—but John is still a bear of a man.

John lurches forward, falteringly, as if Sam's words had hurt him physically. A huge hand attempts to close the gap, reaching out to grab hold of the neck of Sam's t-shirt—perhaps an attempt to rein his son in somehow but Sam instinctively jerks away and shifts himself out of reach. His dad wouldn't hit him but Sam's afraid...afraid he won't be able to take his words back.

Sam doesn't wait around to see if he'll be given the chance. He turns and bolts from the motel room, slamming the door behind him as he runs out into the parking lot.

Dean is sitting on the curb a little away from the motel, kicking at a small pebble as though it had done him some great injustice. He looks pained; he could hear the raised voices even after taking refuge outside. He doesn't look up as Sam runs out of their room and he doesn't try to stop his brother as Sam takes off sprinting across the parking lot and down the street. Sam will be back.

These battles of will between Sam and Dad, which have become as regular as the sun rising in the morning, always seem to end the same way. Dad doggedly pushes for what he wants—on this occasion for Sam to drop his AP English class in favor of training—Sam rebels, they argue and Sam takes off. An hour will pass, sometimes two. But Sam will come back. His cheeks will be blotchy and his eyes puffy...but he'll still come back.

XXX

It's the middle of winter and snow flakes are falling like feathers from the sky.

Sam runs until he's out of breath. Until his chest aches and there's a pain in his side which can almost eclipse the one in his heart.

He leans over bracing his hands on his knees, head hanging down, panting hard. It's icy cold but he's sweating from the exertion. He stands up, balls his hands into tight fists and rubs them into his eyes, trying to rub away the few unwelcome tears which are lingering there, blurring his vision.

He's reached the outskirts of the town. _Town_ being too favourable a word to describe Hollandale as the population is so small that when they hold their annual 4th of July parade, there's usually more people riding on the floats than watching them.

The road Sam has been following is little more than a dirt track, which trails along the edge of the vast woods which dominate the County. Sam looks behind him, trying to gauge how far he has run, it's growing dark and he knows better than to be out alone and unarmed after sunset.

The snow on the ground is a light dusting, like some pastry-chef had gone overboard with icing sugar and a sieve. And Sam notices that he's standing directly in front of one particularly fine old house.

Despite the out-of-the-way location, the windows are brightly lit. There's music which sounds like the tinkling of piano keys and faint cheerful laughter. A layer of crisp white snow is sitting on the roof, like it should be there all year round; it's that picture postcard perfect.

It's then that Sam remembers what day it is: it's Thanksgiving. He's not surprised he had forgotten; it's not an occasion his family cares to celebrate. It's normally only recognized because Dad gets grouchy over the fact that the shops close early, traffic is a serious bitch and Sam usually feels more different than ever to other kids his age. Most of those lucky little bastards get to sit around a dining table choosing between a serving of turkey leg or turkey breast, whereas Sam usually gets to sit in the Impala choosing between carrying a salt-loaded shotgun or a semi-automatic. Fuck it, sometimes, he takes both.

Last Thanksgiving Dean had taken him to an all-night diner for a slice of pumpkin pie but then Dean always does make an effort to try and make Sam feel less at odds with their hunting lifestyle. An illusion of normality, at least, that's what Sam calls it but he appreciates the effort and always relishes an opportunity to enjoy 'normal' for awhile, even if it does only last the length of time it takes for him to clear his plate of pie crumbs and swallow the remaining dregs of luke-warm coffee.

The beads of sweat that had caused Sam's t-shirt to stick to his body feel like they're freezing into miniature ice cubes. Sam shivers but continues to stare at the house, the life he knows he can never have. He's just about to start walking back in the direction of the motel, when the front door to the grand house unexpectedly opens and a soft sweet voice shouts, "Hi."

A teenaged girl, probably not much older than Sam, is standing in the doorway. She's smiling broadly right at him and Sam feels his face grow hot, a blush spreading across his cheeks. "You look frozen half to death, why don't you come in? I've made hot chocolate."

She actually holding two huge mugs and Sam can see the steam rolling up from them; can smell rich dark chocolate and cinnamon spice in the air.

He knows he shouldn't go inside. Sam—about a million times more so than most other people—is glaringly aware of how easy it is for evil to lurk behind an innocent face but as he stands there looking at her, considering his next move, he can feel the sharp tug of an invisible line reeling him in.

Seeming to sense his hesitation the girl flashes another pretty smile and even while Sam's brain is screaming _'no' _his treacherous legs are walking up the path and right through the door, into the warm comfortable house.

And it's then that everything changes.

Where there had been long flowing auburn curls now there's only wispy white hair, barely enough to cover the liver-spot-marked scalp. The attractive young face is gone, replaced instead with thin wrinkled skin, yellowing teeth and a crooked nose. The teenaged girl isn't what she had appeared to be at all but in fact an old woman, her back stooped over with age.

The interior of the house doesn't look like the fine home it had been only seconds before either; it's the same building but it's far from elegant, it's as decrepit as its owner.

The room Sam is standing in is large, cavernous. He's surrounded by crumbling stone walls, lined with rows upon rows of shelves which are heaped with all manner of weird objects caked in thick dust and silvery cobwebs. Numerous glass jars, heavily melted wax candles alive with peculiar green flames, a few books that have titles Sam's never heard of and propping them up like a bookend is what looks alarmingly like a cat skull.

"Hunter," the woman declares. Disdain for the word lingers on her tongue like a bad taste in the mouth. She looks Sam up and down, appraising him like he's something she wants to purchase at market. "Hunter's son." She smiles, a smile that's old and knowing. One that's been used many times before, whenever she has taken something she desires.

"I want to leave," Sam states as firmly as the quiver in his voice will allow. He glances at the door behind him; a heavy oak door, now closed and bolted shut. "Let me leave."

She hobbles past Sam, ignoring him as though he'd never spoken. "Hunters are rare these days and you—you interest me." She moves toward her shelves and runs a long dirty fingernail along the various items, pausing only when she reaches what she's looking for.

A spike of alarm runs through Sam's body as she carefully lifts an ornate dagger from the shelves. Sam unconsciously moves into a defensive stance and he tenses, waiting, adrenalin starting to pump making his fingers twitch with anticipation. The dagger's handle is ivory, carved with a Baphomet symbol. Sam's mouth goes bone-dry as she runs the tip of the blade along her palm and bright red blood drips onto the floor like raindrops.

XXX

When Sam opens his eyes, his senses slowly trickle back to him like sand in an hourglass. He's lying on the ground. It's cold and the air smells ripe with damp and mould. He feels strange, sluggish; his limbs stubbornly reluctant to move under his command.

As he struggles to pull himself into a sitting position, he realizes he's in some kind of cellar. It's dark but he can see the old woman standing at an altar, which looks as though it has been around for centuries. There's something mystical and yet indefinable charging the air around her like electricity.

The old woman halts whatever she is doing and turns to stare at Sam, a mixture of confusion and bitter disappointment marring her expression. "Tainted child. I can't use your blood."

Sam brings his left hand up to his face and sees that there is a jagged gash running across the fleshy middle of his palm, the blood just starting to clot. He manages to get to his feet but he's unsteady and as he takes a few shaky steps away from her she doesn't try and stop him.

"Such a waste, such a pity. Poor child, poor child, poor child." She echoes in a breathy sing-song voice. Turning back to her altar, she lifts a hand and waves it absently at Sam as though giving him permission to leave.

Sam glances around, his eyes quickly finding the stairs leading out of the cellar. As he cautiously moves towards the stairs—all the time keeping his eyes on the woman—there's a sudden swift succession of loud thumps which come from the floor above them. It sounds like heavy footfalls and Sam notices the old lady's head jerk upwards, she cocks her head to one side, listening tentatively. Looks like she wasn't expecting visitors.

"SAM! SAMMY?"

Sam sucks in a breath; he'd recognize that voice anywhere. "Dean! Here. I'm down here."

The cellar floods with light as a door at the top of the stairs crashes open and Dean charges down towards them, shotgun raised. His eyes rapidly absorb the scene; the altar and the blood on Sam's hand, the way his brother looks a little shell-shocked but otherwise relatively healthy and _Jesus Christ, thank you God,_ because Dean's mind had been freaking out imagining finding all kinds of gruesome things.

"Hey, lady," Dean growls. His eyes rest on Sam for a moment—drinking in the sight of his kid brother alive and breathing—before flicking over to fix the woman with a vicious stare. "You're really going for the whole witch stereotype aren't you? You got a black cat too?"

"You see the bookend upstairs?" Sam asks dryly, edging over to stand by Dean's side.

Dean shudders. "Ewww. Rest in peace, Mr. Tinkles."

Sam stifles the urge to laugh out loud. Sometimes it's good to have a big brother, especially one like Dean.

"You're mocking me." The old woman says, turning to look at Dean.

"Nice of you to finally notice." Dean's trademark smirk is replaced with a feral sneer, "So, Hecate, I'm taking Sam out of here. Then I'll come back and we can have a nice little chat about you kidnapping teenaged boys for your hoo doo, voo doo or whatever the hell it is you witches do...do."

Sam raises an eyebrow and Dean shrugs, "What? You're the one who let yourself get nabbed by the Queen of the Cougar Hounds here."

"You're a disrespectful one, boy; maybe I should teach you some manners," she hisses, clenching a fist and Sam can see blood oozing from between her fingers.

"Maybe I should teach you personal hygiene. A little soap, a gallon of Nair, you could make some old guy very happy." Dean quips, keeping his shotgun pointed in her direction.

"I'll rip your life away; you'll learn some respect then."

"Awesome, it's a date. But just so you know, I don't put out on a first date." Dean grabs Sam by the arm and guides him towards the stairs.

They don't see her move but suddenly the old woman is right there, standing so close behind them that Dean can smell her fetid breath. She reaches out a hand and lets her fingers ghost across Sam's retreating back. She's mumbling under her breath, a rolling cadence of strange words from a distant land. Dean curses and knocks her hand away roughly. "Don't touch him," he spits before hurrying Sam up the stairs and out of the door. The woman doesn't move, instead she stands motionless with her outstreched hand still hovering in the air and the portentous words still flowing from her lips.

Sam feels wobbly, light-headed like the time he and Eddie Cowley drank half a bottle of Jägermeister at Joe Wiezman's Bar Mitzvah. Dean is keeping a firm grip on his elbow as they hurry out of the house and towards the Impala. "H—How'd you find me?" Sam stutters, through chattering teeth.

"How'd I find you? You've been gone hours, Sam."

Sam frowns; it doesn't feel like he's been gone all that long but as he glances towards the heavens he can see a shimmering full moon high in the night's sky.

"I drove up and down this dirt road four times and the EMF kept spiking each time I passed her place. At first I thought the house was derelict but I could tell there was some serious mojo going on. She used a glamour, right? Made you see something which wasn't real? What'd she disguise herself as to lure you in, Albert Einstein? Steven Hawkins?"

Sam looks away, embarrassed. His dad was right; he really never will be as good a hunter as Dean. "A girl." Sam stops talking, thinks for a moment and then whispers. "The old woman said I'm tainted."

Dean halts their progress as they reach the Impala. He leans right into Sam's personal space, looking his brother over for signs of injury. "_She_ is a crazy old broad with more than her fair share of bats in the belfry. Are you okay? Did she do anything to you, apart from creep you out?"

"No." Sam wants to say more but his head is fuzzy, a sound like white noise static buzzing in his ears. What was he trying to say again? "I'm cold, I..." But the words won't come and it's not that his vocal cords aren't working but rather that he can't remember the words he needs.

Dean opens the passenger door and helps Sam carefully into the seat. "You're freezing, Sammy. Didn't you know people wear their jackets in the winter, genius? I'll take you back to the motel then Dad and I will deal with her." He must notice the way Sam physically tenses because he quickly adds, "Dad's not mad at you, okay? He just wants what he thinks is best for us, _for you_, Sam."

Again at a loss for words, Sam simply nods, feeling dumb, and rests his aching head against the car window.

Sam must have fallen asleep because it seems like only seconds ago that he closed his eyes before Dean is nudging his shoulder to wake him. Sam's eyelids are heavy iron doors with badly rusted hinges. It takes him a few attempts before he manages to pry them apart and Dean is already pulling him out of the car and across the parking lot towards their motel room.

Sam walks like he's moving through quick sand, each step a considerable effort like he thinks he's taking part in a moon landing. "Dude, what's wrong with you?" Dean asks, thinly veiled concern edging his tone. His face is hovering inches away from Sam's as he studies his brother's dull glassy eyes. "Son of a bitch, she's done something to you, hasn't she? Did she make you drink any funky tea? Offer you something to eat which smelled fusty?"

Sam huffs—_I'm not stupid_—and even that takes all of his concentration.

"Sammy? Say something." Dean's shaking him again and Sam wants to tell him to stop, wants to lie down on the gravel and sleep because he's so tired and all this walking and trying to talk is exhausting.

Sam is vaguely aware of his legs crumbling out from under him. He can feel himself falling forward, limbs as floppy as a rag doll but he doesn't have the energy or strength to put out his hands and protect his fall.

"Shit. Shit!" Dean makes a grab for him and then he's being held tight in Dean's arms and the only thing he can manage to do is gawp helplessly up at Dean as his brother carefully lowers him onto the ground.

It's cold on the ground and the gravel is uncomfortable, digging through Sam's thin t-shirt into the skin of his back, but it could be a bed of nails for all Sam cares. He just needs to sleep and Dean's fraught expression is the last thing he sees as he lets his eyes fall closed.

"Sam, no. Stay awake. Stay with me, Sammy." Dean scrambles forward on his knees, mindless of the wet snow soaking into his jeans. He lifts Sam's lolling head so that it's resting on his lap.

"Dad! Help me, there's something wrong with Sam." Dean's voice, more urgent, more panicked, but Sam's deep under and he can't reach the surface; instead he sinks into a dreamless sleep.

-0-

_Part Two up soon. Please R&R, long or short it's always appreciated._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer & Warnings - As Part One._

_A/N: A huge thank you to everyone for all the wonderful reviews, I really hope I've managed to reply to all of you in person and if not then I just want you to know that I truly am extremely grateful for the feedback._

_A/N2: Mammoth thanks (see, you've got a mammoth this time guys!) to Adarachan-67 and TammiTam - I really couldn't have got this done without your combined awesomeness, your patience and support._

**The Glass Casket - Part Two**

Dean and John carry Sam inside the motel room. Sharing the weight of the tall muscular body between them, they lay him gently down on the soft mattress of his own neatly made bed. They quickly check his pulse and his breathing, both of which seem fine, strong and healthy, except for the fact that Sam isn't waking up.

Dean cajoles, prods and pinches—maybe he feels a little shitty about the pinching but he's growing desperate because Sam doesn't respond, not once. Not even to tell Dean to _shove off_ when Dean whispers into his ear that if he doesn't wake up then he is going to draw a moustache on Sam's face with a Sharpie. Heck, if Sam doesn't open his eyes _right this second_, he is seriously considering drawing a giant dick on his brother's forehead, too. But Sam can't be listening because he doesn't give Dean his customary dimpled grin or open his eyes and Dean doesn't draw a moustache...or anything else for that matter.

John is unjustly angry with Dean at first, firing furious questions at his eldest, who succeeds in keeping his own temper only by biting down hard on the inside of his cheek and—as he is sitting sentry on the edge of Sam's bed—by keeping one hand resting on his brother's arm. The simple contact is enough to remind him why he needs to keep a level head. Bawling at his dad for having fought with Sam and letting him run off in the first place isn't going to help his brother. And that's what really matters to Dean, helping Sam.

John doesn't wait around to see if Sam will snap out of it. He rummages through the weapons bag and stalks out into the night, carrying a loaded .45 and rough directions to the old woman's isolated house.

By the time three hours have passed and John hasn't returned to the motel or even called, Dean's anxiety is skyrocketing to epic proportions. Surely his dad would have found the old witch by now and if two hundred pounds of storming John Winchester can't convince her to lift the curse then Sam's pretty much screwed.

XXX

It's early morning and the sky is shaded with vivid stokes of pink when Dean finally relents to the increasingly pressing urge to empty his bladder. He doesn't want to leave Sam alone, not even for a second, because what if Sam wakes up and Dean isn't there? What if something else happens as part of the damn curse? What if Sam stops breathing? _Christ!_

Sam is laid on his back with a couple of thick blankets pulled tight across his long frame, his arms laying loose and limp on either side of his body. Dean leans over Sam and puts a hand on his brother's forehead. There's no sign of any fever, but it's a relief that brings Dean little comfort. "Sammy...please wake up."

Dean takes Sam's hand—it's warm, thank God, not cold—and squeezes it. He squeezes hard and then even harder until the knuckles of his own hands turn stark white. He watches Sam's face for any sign of pain reaction, anything at all, but when nothing happens he releases his steel grip and carefully places Sam's hand so that it's resting on his brother's chest.

Sam's features are loose and smooth, peaceful in a way Dean hasn't seen since they were little kids, since before Sam knew the truth about their dad. Dean had badly wanted to see that carefree look back on Sam's face again...but not like this.

"Sammy, I'm going to the bathroom. Okay?" It feels strange speaking to Sam when he knows he won't get an answer, but Dean can't stop himself and wonders if he's even doing it more for his own benefit than Sam's.

Dean didn't get the chance to properly talk things through with his dad. When Sam collapsed their usual calm methodical manner of planning their hunt went out the window. This isn't an ordinary case; this is Sam, their Sam.

The lack of facts, of any kind, means that Dean doesn't even know for certain if Sam is asleep, oblivious to his surroundings. He could be conscious, fully aware but trapped inside his paralyzed body...or trapped in nightmares. Dean quickly begins to realize that if Sam doesn't wake up soon he's going to go crazy thinking about it.

He pulls the blankets higher up Sam's chest before walking into the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open just in case one of the many 'what ifs' tries to creep up on his brother in the short time it takes Dean to piss.

Dean is just zipping up when he hears the motel room door open. He makes a grab for the small .22 his Dad keeps hidden behind the bathroom sink and peers out from behind the door.

There a freakin' maid wheeling a trolley, which clinks with various glass bottles and cleaning equipment as she struggles with it over the doorframe and into the room. She freezes and her mouth drops open as she spots Sam laid out on the bed, "Oh, sir, so sorry to disturb you. I didn't..."

Dean pushes the .22 into the waistband of his jeans and steps out from his hiding place. "It's fine. My brother's sick. He's sleeping...can you come back another time?" _Like fucking never._

The young woman is attractive and has a pretty decent rack too—not that Dean notices. Well, of course he notices, but it's an afterthought, a dispassionate addendum, and he has no intention of flirting, current circumstances considered. "I have fresh towels for you." Her voice is accented thick Spanish and more than a little sexy.

"Another time," Dean repeats, no longer even trying to mask his frustration as he shows her the door. As he 'helpfully' shoves her trolley out of the room, he sees the Impala pull into the parking lot.

John looks rough. He's been out all night and as far as Dean can tell, he hasn't had any sleep at all. His face is dirty, dotted with tiny scratches and he's unshaven. His eyes are dark, bruised with shadows and bone-aching weariness.

"Dad? Did you find her?" The underlying question being, _did you kill her?_

John side-steps Dean and moves into the motel room, he walks over to stand by Sam's bed.

"Dad? Did you?" Dean presses the issue, feeling panic bubble in his chest.

John looks up only when the heat of Dean's gaze burning a hole in his back becomes unbearable. "No," he mumbles, his voice coarse grit like he's been shouting...or screaming. Dean doesn't want to try to guess which. "I found her house, exactly where you told me it would be. But she wasn't there. I saw her in those woods at the back of her place. I tried to follow but I couldn't catch her. Each time I thought I was getting closer, she was further away from me than ever and I was just getting myself deeper into the woods." John stops talking, worries his bottom lip with his teeth and looks at Dean, his face already set in bitter acceptance.

"I don't know how she got past me, Dean. We've been here four months and I had no clue there was a witch living here, in this town. I found her altar in the basement; she was working some dark arts alright." John leans further over the bed and studies Sam's face attentively.

"No change, he hasn't woken up," Dean says, not needing to hear the question when he can already guess what John is thinking. The panic in Dean's chest has settled into the pit of his stomach like a lead weight.

John doesn't speak; instead he continues to stare at Sam. For the first time in a long time he really looks at his son and _shit_, when did Sam grow up? It doesn't seem that long ago that Sam would hold out his arms, grasping fingers reaching for John's neck, demanding to be held. But since Sam turned thirteen, John hasn't seen much of Sam's face for the curtains of brown hair which his son loves to hide behind. He hadn't noticed that Sam was changing all this while, from being all chubby-arms-and-legs toddler to gangling awkward youth to lean-framed and broad-shouldered man. Maybe somewhere deep inside he simply hadn't wanted to. The soft innocent features of his Sammy have all but faded, leaving a stranger in their wake. All at once, it's overwhelming and John feels his legs go rubbery.

John sighs heavily as he lowers himself into a chair. "Then I'll call everyone I know and we'll fix Sam ourselves."

Dean nods. That sounds like a plan. _A crappy, hopeless, clutching__-at-__straws plan_. He digs his fingernails into his palms in an effort to keep himself from crying.

Losing Sammy wouldn't just mean losing the youngest member of their small family. Dean is of no doubt that losing Sammy would destroy his dad and him too.

As Dean watches the soft light of a new day flicker across Sam's lax features, he wonders. If they are the good guys, the heroes, then who is going to come and save them?

XXX

Over the next two days, John sticks to his plan and makes calls to everyone he knows. He has to swallow his pride on more than one occasion when he makes contact with hunters he didn't part with on the best of terms (and that applies to the majority of the hunters on John's cell phone) but for his sons, there is nobody he wouldn't eat humble pie for.

Dean isn't surprised when it turns out that Bobby Singer is the one friend of his dad who comes through with the best offers of help.

Dean remembers Bobby from when he and Sam were kids. He remembers spending hours exploring the Singer Salvage Yard with a snot-nose rug rat Sammy in tow while they waited for their dad to finish with whatever it was he and 'Uncle' Bobby did when they got together.

The salvage yard was their playground for the length of their visit, the car graveyard that Dean grew to love. He'd wander around admiring the different cars, undaunted by the fact that most of the vehicles were well beyond repair and little more than scrap metal.

Dean would pick out a favorite—sometimes the burnt-out shell of a Firebird, sometimes a Mustang with its engine eaten away with rust—and take up position in the driver's seat with Sammy in the passenger seat beside him. Sam's short podgy legs would be swinging happily as he made enthusiastic car noises and repeatedly reached across Dean's chest to honk the horn.

Bobby is older than their dad, equally gruff and as hard as nails but more easygoing than John**,** especially once the brothers figured out that they could wheedle their way into Bobby's heart and get his tough exterior to crack.

Bobby prefers researching to being out in the field; it's not that Bobby is a coward—because Dean had heard plenty of stories from his dad about the hunts Bobby had carried out—but simply because Bobby likes solving puzzles, digging out information in places nobody but he could find it and he's damn good at it too.

Hunting can be messy; there are the usual freaked-out citizens to placate and lies to weave and Bobby feels more comfortable with his books. Anyone who isn't a hunter, anyone who is blind to the truth, makes him edgy.

When John finishes speaking to Bobby on the phone, he ends the call with his spirit feeling lighter than it has in days and with a promise that Bobby will get to Hollandale as soon as possible.

XXX

Bobby, true to his word, arrives around lunchtime that same day. When he walks through the motel room door he's carrying a bag of food under his arm; Bobby is shrewd enough to know how little importance both of the older Winchester men would put on eating with Sam in danger.

John looks genuinely pleased to see Bobby and whatever bad feeling might have existed between the two seasoned hunters is quickly shoved under the carpet when they exchange a firm handshake and Bobby hurls the bag of Chinese take-out in Dean's direction.

Dean can barely stomach the smell of the sticky BBQ ribs congealing in the tub in front of him**,** especially when Sam has been surviving on a few messy mouthfuls of protein shake and the saline IV bags which Dad commandeered.

While John eats, albeit begrudgingly, Bobby sorts through his kit and watches Dean carefully. He's not sure how this is going to pan out and it's not going to be easy asking Dean to relinquish his hold of Sam's hand. Underneath his stubble, Dean is already growing pale from lack of sleep, like his brother; he has clearly lost a little weight. But Dean's fingers remain firmly coiled around Sam's hand, carefully; to avoid catching against the IV port which is surrounded with yellow bruising.

Dean is too preoccupied talking to Sam to notice Bobby's gaze. "Hey, Sammy, do you remember when we went to Pennsylvania hunting a werewolf pack? I think you were maybe nine or ten. Dad had pulled the car over at some gas station for a pit stop. It was so cold, real brass-monkey weather, and you were jogging up and down at the side of the road, trying to keep warm. I said that when you run, you look like a transvestite running away from the cops on Hollywood Boulevard. Just as you threw a humongous snowball, Dad got out the car and you hit him instead. Oh, man, he was so mad, but we couldn't take him seriously because he had all this snow caught in his eyebrows and he cracked up laughing...eventually...after he'd chased us halfway to Ohio."

Bobby stands up, wiping sweaty hands on his jeans—_it's now or never_—and walks over to stand over Dean. "Dean, I need you and your Dad to leave the room. Just while I complete the ritual."

"What the hell for? No way."

"Dean!" John's voice is hard and firm, "Bobby needs to concentrate and..." _If this doesn't work it'd be easier on you if you weren't here to see it._

Bobby sees the desperation on Dean's face and things maybe the kid is right; maybe it is best if he stays by his brother's side. If things don't work out, Dean should have the right to be here. "John. It's okay. Dean can stay, you can both stay. Just try not to get in the way."

The ritual requires blood. Dean grunts at that little eye-opener, but don't they always? It's not hard to believe, considering all Winchester debts seem to be paid in blood...or fire. But Bobby has come prepared; he has a quart of pig's blood, syrupy thick and gross-looking, sloshing around in an old diet soda bottle. Some of the blood is used to draw symbols on the floor, on the bare concrete where they have rolled back the carpet. Bobby uses the rest to draw tiny symbols on Sam's chest.

When the symbols are complete and the room is dimly lit by several strategically-placed candles, John tenderly lifts Sam out of his bed and lays him inside the circle of symbols Bobby has created.

As Bobby starts to perform the ritual Dean lets his eyes wander, first to Bobby, then to his dad. Both of their faces look drawn tight in the flickering candlelight. Bobby's forehead is furrowed in concentration. The ritual isn't a drawn-out affair. Bobby recites the rite word-perfect, and as the ritual comes to an end and silence pervades the room, the eyes of the three men focus on Sam. He is motionless, his pliant limbs laid out in exactly the same position Bobby had put them.

Sam doesn't open his eyes.

John stands up and, in a fit of angry despondency, storms out of the motel room. Dean looks at Bobby, his own desperation beginning to suffocate him. "You tried, Bobby. At least you tried." Dean shrugs and tries not to grimace as he hears the familiar sound of the Impala's engine as his dad drives away.

Bobby helps him get Sam back into bed. Dean re-inserts the IV and goes to make up some more protein shake. He uses one hand to carefully pull Sam's chin down so that Sam's mouth falls open and the other hand to tip the glass towards his brother's lips. Some of the chalky pink liquid spills down the side of Sam's cheek and Dean hastily mops it away with the cuff of his sleeve. "I'm sorry, son," Bobby mutters, his eyes earnestly fixated with the carpet.

"Damn, Bobby, this isn't your fault." _It's mine, it's dad's, it's ours. Not yours._

Bobby shuffles his feet, feeling awkward, as though he's intruding somehow. "I'm going to head on home. See if I can't dig out something else we could try. Be sure to tell your daddy to call me…when he gets back."

Dean feels a hand squeeze his shoulder. He hears the motel room door open and then close softly as Bobby leaves the room. Dean seats himself on the chair, which has been permanently situated by Sam's bedside since that first fateful night, and watches the rise and fall of his brother's chest.

He wishes they had taken Sam to a hospital so that he could at least hear the steady beeps of machines reassuring him that Sam is alive. When his brother's chest stills, even for the briefest split-second, Dean feels his own breathing stop as he waits, watches, and only when Sam's chest starts moving again is Dean able to swallow down the bile stinging at the back of his throat.

Unable to fight the pull of sleep any longer, Dean dozes for a short time and it's the sound of his cell phone buzzing on the nightstand that wakes him. He spares a glance at the caller display before punching a button and resting the phone between his ear and shoulder. "She's left town. I've burned her altar, her books, her house. The fire damn near burned down the entire street...is Sammy awake?" John's voice sounds different, broken. Dean's broken hero.

Dean glances over and puts out a hand to shake Sam's shoulder lightly, irrepressible hope clawing at his chest. "No. He's not awake," Dean chokes out. "Dad?"

"There are no clues as to where she's gone, son. No way to track her, I—I don't know."

Dean lets the phone slip from between his fingers. It clatters noisily onto the floor and Dean is grateful for the sound. The motel room is too quiet, the air stagnant. He wants to shout, to scream until the windows blow out, but instead he forces his voice into a whisper. "We'll find her, Sammy."

A sudden spark of light in the room catches Dean's eye and he twists his neck to see a small white orb hovering over by the dresser. The orb flickers crazily for a moment and then, without warning, it vanishes and in its place is the witch.

She scuttles across the room to where Sam lies on the bed. A skeletal**-**thin hand appears from beneath her tattered robes and begins to caress Sam's hair with almost motherly affection. Dean's emotions rapidly shift from stunned to outraged. He's pulling out his gun even before his brain can process the instruction. "Get away from him, bitch. Why are you here? You weren't happy with fucking up my brother's life so you thought you'd stop by to catch the floor show?"

"I came to give him back."

"Really?"

"Seems like others have big plans for him and they were...let's just say, they were very persuasive."

Dean notices both her wrists are marked with matching rings of purple bruising. Her words are far from comforting but if she's telling the truth about giving Sam back he can't, won't, pull the trigger. If she's messing with him, with Sam, she won't live long enough to regret it.

Her hand rests on Sam's forehead. "He's very weak, but he'll live." She gives Dean a gap-toothed grin and murmurs something. Dean doesn't hear what she says but he watches, slack-jawed, as Sam's head rolls on his pillow.

The old woman instantly forgotten, Dean hurries over to Sam and crouches down on his haunches. "Sam? Come on. Come on back, Sammy." So engrossed is Dean in watching his brother's struggling efforts to rouse that he doesn't notice the old witch slip soundlessly out of the room.

"D—Dean." Forget friggin' choirs of angels; this is better than AC/DC live, better than Louise Marshall making that cute chipmunk noise when they had sex in Dean's senior year, better than anything Dean's ever heard before.

Heavy-lidded, cloudy hazel eyes meet Dean's gaze and Sam's dry, cracked lips part in a smile. Dean, speechless for once, leans down and wraps his brother in a tight hug.

XXX

"Dean. You look like you're about to keel over. Get some rest. I'll still be here when you wake up." Not long after waking Sam's eyelids had started to droop again. He's frail, bound to be exhausted, and yet Dean can't deny the way his heart jackhammers in his chest the second Sam's eyes start to drift closed.

"You'd better be, bitch, or I'm keeping my promise about drawing a dick." Dean's mouth twitches as Sam's face scrunches in a baffled expression and his eyebrows shoot up to greet his hairline.

Sam watches silently as Dean settles himself on the other bed, wriggling around until he gets himself comfortable. It isn't long before Dean's breathing relaxes into the steady rhythm of sleep and Sam doesn't take long to follow.

When Sam wakes up he's somewhat surprised to find his nose is squashed against Dean's shoulder. His lifts his head to see his brother stretched out asleep beside him. Dean's hand has Sam's wrist enclosed in a slack grip, fingertips lightly resting against the pulse point there. Sam makes a quick metal note for future teasing purposes, curls himself closer to his brother and settles back into sleep.

XXX

It's a few hours later when John finally arrives back at the motel, his clothes reeking with the smell of smoke and his mouth tasting sour from the dirt-cheap whisky he has been drinking. As he pushes the door open the first thing he sees is Sam sitting up in bed—his back propped against several pillows—staring back at him. John does a double-take at the sight, almost tempted to go back outside to the car and sleep off the effects of the booze.

Dean is in the small kitchenette, fixing a huge plateful of sandwiches; his cheery expression is quickly replaced with a guilty one when he notices John standing in the doorway. "I was just gonna call you, Dad. I wanted to get Sam something to eat first; if he gets any skinner we could hang fairy lights and baubles off of him at Christmas time."

"Hey. I'm right here," Sam croaks from the bed, trying to sound insulted but failing.

"Like we hadn't noticed." Dean grins at his dad as he nods his head in Sam's direction. "He never shuts up."

John stumbles over and sits on the edge of Sam's bed, unable to take his eyes off of his youngest. "You're okay?"

"I'm fine. Funnily enough I'm kinda tired, but I'm fine, honest."

"I would never have forgiven myself if…."

"I'm not a child anymore. It was stupid of me to run off like that. It's my fault, not Dean's and not yours."

John pats Sam's leg awkwardly, if this Sam's way of forgiving him, he'll take it. "Son, I've been thinking. If you want to keep taking your class—"

"Dad, it's okay. I got myself kidnapped by a witch and almost ended up with my picture on the side of a milk carton. I think I need the training."

A little later they sit on Sam's bed, sharing the sandwiches, Sam scowling every time Dean brushes crumbs off of his lap onto the sheets.

"The witch...she just, what? Changed her mind?" John asks, licking peanut butter off of his fingers in a way which reminds Sam where Dean got the trait from.

"Guess she realized she hadn't chosen the handsomest Winchester in all the land to play Snow White," Dean says around a mouthful of food, spraying Sam with spittle and a half-masticated soggy piece of bread.

"I don't know, she probably thought you were too busy playing all seven of the dwarves," Sam snorts.

"Oh, hardy har har. Make fun of the height thing while you can, gigantor. Once you're back on your feet I'll owe you an ass whooping in training."

Sam laughs and then his face grows stern, serious. "So, we're really letting her go?"

John raises an eyebrow, "What do you think I train you boys for?" He winks and claps a hand on each of his sons' shoulders. "We've got work to do."

-**end**-

_Author's end note: In the next week or so I'm going to start working on another companion piece to 'While You Were Sleeping.' This time focusing on Sam and the poison ivy, as requested by the wonderfully talented kokoda2007. _

_If my writer's block is feeling particularly forgiving then hopefully it'll be posted soon._


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